Photographs
by golden.scrpit
Summary: An essay i wrote for school, based on a dream i had where my boyfriend dies   i woke up crying. the events in this dream did happen, except the death and i did say i love you back :  happy reading


Photographs

As I brush my hair my eye catches something on my wall, a rectangle of colour amidst a sea of light blue, a photo of me and Anthony my boyfriend. He had his arms around me, his head on my shoulder, looking directly into the camera. It captured him perfectly his dark hair falling in gentle curls over his framed hazel eyes. I smiled remembering the moments leading up to when it was taken. We had gone for a long walk, it was a blustery Saturday, and my hair was tossed from the wind. We were laughing and joking about when we grow up and live together, suddenly he ambushed me with his camera. "Smile" he laughed as he snapped at me while I tried but failed to look seriously unimpressed with his shenanigans. Then I grabbed it and after much persuasion I managed to get three photos out of him, the only ones I have of us together. Sighing I put my brush down and pluck a tissue from the box on my dressing table. My mascara running down my cheeks, I dab gently at my eyes but the tears spill over again and again. I drop to the floor, my back to the door, I hug my knees and weep, and huge shuddering jagged sobs erupt from within me.

My eyes are still stinging, my whole body physically exhausted from crying. The music stops, the service starts. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath willing myself not to cry. A single tier slides down my cheek as my eyes open. The service is well underway now, a few rows in front I can see a few friends of his and his family. Lucy his sister has her head bowed and her shoulders are moving slowly up and down coinciding with her quiet cries echoing throughout the church. I stand up and begin to walk towards the podium. Every step amplified all eyes on me, people whisper. Adjusting the mic I unfold the paper as I have many times this week. I opened my mouth and begin to recite the carefully chosen words. "Stop all the clocks" salty tears ebbing my eyelids waiting to spill over, one by one the words become blurry my voice cracks as each one leaves my mouth. I finish and walk back to my seat, drying my eyes I see for the first time the numeras wreaths and flowers, the gleaming silver handles and oak polish. Out of the corner of my eye I see a table with several photos all at various stages of his childhood. A happy pudgy baby fists open grabbing at the camera like tiny starfish. A little boy with a mop of dark curls and a cheeky gleam in his eye screams at the camera holder because he's only in his boxers. A broody looking teenager looking very unimpressed at the person behind the camera his long dark hair covering one of his beautiful brown eyes and finally one of him and me. The one from my wall. I also see a gray hat, drumsticks and the vinyl I got him for Christmas.

The music starts the service is over, a line of black suits pass me, I stand to leave. It's a cold blustery spring morning. I look at my watch, half one. I should be going to p.e now, laughing with my friends, covertly texting him and planning my weekend. Not slowly making my way along a quiet road behind a long black car, drowning in a sea of people in black, teachers, friends, family. As we walk towards the brigde over the river toward the steep ascent past the doctors, my school, over the railway tracks outside the ruins of the castle towards his new home. I wrap my arms around myself to keep warm and shield myself from the couple approaching me. The boy and girl not much older then myself one lanky and fair the other stout and dark, the rejected hugs are met with sympathetic smiles and a gentle squeeze of the hand. I had never liked them much but, they were close friends of his and are probably hurting just as much as I am.

Stepping forward I gently kiss the single white rose in my hand before dropping it into the rich smelling earth below me. I notice the view from where I stand, I smile brefly for a moment at the thought that he will always be in a place as quiet and beautiful as this. The ancient low stone wall separating me from the field below the wide river at the foot of the field and the town stretching as far as the eye cold see.

As another random person shakes my hand and apologies for my loss I wonder why they are apologising to someone they don't know for something they didn't cause, unless they were one of the jockeys who landed on the other side of that jump that day they had nothing to apologise for. I suddenly feel queasy as I remember the warmth of the blood sticking and seeping through my fingers the smell of rust filling my lungs, the haunting gargling sound as his blood filled lungs scream for air. The pain behind his beautiful eyes as the lost focus and the light slowly drained from them. How I held his lifeless cold hand all the way in the ambulance and how I waited for hours in the desolate cold hospital corridor only to be told hours later by Dr. Van Der Walt there was nothing more they could do. That he was sorry but Anthony was gone. I thought about the last time I saw him properly, it was two days previous. We went for a walk on a blustery afternoon. We chatted, laughed, took photos. We sat on a grassy embankment reviling at the view, he put his arms around me pulling me closer and whispered that he loved me. Now when I see the photo I think of how perfect that moment was, how I want to capture it in a photo and re live it over and over again, I think of how I should have whispered back.


End file.
